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An American Thanksgiving "Let's all gather around the table for prayer before dinner," our hostess, LaDonna, said. "Eric, would you give the blessing, please?" I glanced up at my husband, surprised. I hadn't known his family was religious. Then again, I hadn't known much about his family before arriving earlier today. This was my first all in-law event, Thanksgiving.Jeff's family was larger than I'd expected. I'd known in the back of my mind that he had two brothers and a sister, but I didn't know about the aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, first-cousins, or second-cousins. Apparently, all of them attended the holiday celebrations. My own family tended to keep to itself. When there was a gathering, only my immediate family came. My grandmother, my aunt, one of two brothers, my mother, and myself. It was small, it was quiet, it was orderly. It was tradition in the grandest sense of the word.This gathering was pure chaos. Everyone seemed to talk at the same time, creating a buzzing noise that rose and fell as each story tried to outdo the last. Children ran through the crowd, their happiness at rediscovering cousins apparent in the sounds of thrilled shrieking. This discordant symphony was quiet now as we listened to Jeff's father, Eric, give the traditional blessing, and I was grateful for the silence."Amen," chorused around me, my stomach rumbling as I echoed the sentiment. Giving it a reassuring pat, I watched as a line formed outside the kitchen area. Jeff and I joined the line, and my mouth began to water as the smells of Thanksgiving dinner swirled around us. Appetizers had been provided, of course. The usual vegetable trays and chips, a few plates of cookies and sweets, and a platter of several different kinds of pickles and the giant black olives that were my favorite. As wonderful as the snacks were, I held back, knowing the greater delight would be the dinner.There had been a great uproar over the arrival of some homemade pickled herring, apparently a traditional Nordic addition. A smelly, slimy looking item, I had taken the challenge and tried a small bite. Choking down the vile fish had taken a lot of effort and control, but I couldn't keep the disgust off my face. Laughter surrounded me, and I joined in, not to be outdone at my own foolishness. But now would be the glory of the feast. Turkey or ham, I hadn't been able to tell which; potatoes, or perhaps stuffing with little bits of celery; chunky gravy made from giblets and drippings; and perhaps a salad made of fruit. Licking my lips, I grabbed a paper plate and a handful of plastic silverware. I could not wait to see what the kitchen offered.Laid out buffet style, the dinner filled every available space on the table and counter. My eyes coursed over unfamiliar dish after unfamiliar dish, searching for those I recognized. I was unable to identify much in this room with Thanksgiving. There was a green salad, which seemed harmless enough. I quickly identified a pile of dinner rolls waiting to be buttered. I thought I recognized several different vegetables, although the French-cut green beans had some brownish bits of color in it. There was a puddle of green Jell-O, probably lime, complete with small bits of fruit floating inside. The rest of the food was beyond me."Jeff, what is that?" I asked, as he heaped a pile of brown onto his plate. "Aunt Lisa's famous Swedish meatballs!" he explained, joyfully adding a spoonful to my plate."And that?" I asked, eyeing the red, cheese-covered pasta he was now setting next to my meatballs. "Ah, Joe's Mexican enchilada's! You must have more of this!" Before I could protest, the pile doubled in size."And this is Kevin's green bean salad," he offered, sliding some of the odd green vegetable next to the enchilada. "Um, it's cold," I whispered, since I could see him standing not too far down the line from me. I realized that the little brown flecks were in fact pieces of real bacon. Green beans in cold pig fat? My mind recoiled."Yup, and here's a little of Donna's Jell-O," he said, and a pile of bouncing green joined the colors on my plate. "I'm not sure I can eat this much," I said, trying to be diplomatic. A bit of green salad, a fat warm roll and a dollop of nearly-frozen butter appeared on my plate, as did some brownish-yellow scalloped potatoes."Oh sure you can, Lisa! You eat up!" said at least 3 people at once. I smiled as they laughed at their own joke. So much for tact. Jeff steered us toward the stove, and to the meat of the dinner. His aunts, LaDonna and Pricilla, stood by the fruits of their long labor, ready to share with all. The pride of the day, the centerpiece of Thanksgiving.Pricilla smiled and handed me a toasted pair of sesame seed buns. LaDonna proudly flipped a crisply grilled hamburger onto one of my buns. Both wore the serene air of those who have cooked a fabulous feast, fit for Kings. "Want a hot dog too?" LaDonna asked me. Trying not to look as absolutely floored as I was, I shook my head.Jeff gave me a little shove, and I moved to where the mayonnaise, ketchup and mustard all waited for me. Automatically I made the burger up as I like them, more mayonnaise than mustard, generous ketchup, and a smidgen of relish, and went into the dining room to feast. My husband found me there a little while later, just staring in shock at my plate. The colors of the various foods had swirled together, brown ran into green into yellow into green again. The smell was still enticing, but the visual couldn't be ignored.My stomach grumbled. My brain short-circuited. Where were my fat turkey slices? Where were the luscious yams smothered under a layer of sticky marshmallow? Where was the gravy, the potatoes, the stuffing? Where, exactly, was Thanksgiving? "My family is about as traditional as they come," Jeff said."WHAT?" I said, just a little too loudly. "Well, the first Thanksgiving was a way of sharing cultures. The Indians brought food the pilgrims had never eaten before, the pilgrims brought food the Indians had never had before. They shared their food to share their heritage. We do that. Joe is Mexican, Lisa is the only one of us that's been to the homeland, and so on," he said. Then he turned to his food and began to eat from every pile on his plate.I stared just a little harder at the food. I suppose it was different from what I was used to, but could it be that bad? Not one person around me had fallen to the ground in a choking fit, or had keeled over from food poisoning. My mind had talked itself into what was the right thing to serve on Thanksgiving. The right thing to serve on Thanksgiving is whatever you wanted to share with your family, or friends. Lifting the fork, I began to eat my first American Thanksgiving.
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